


God Is My Right!

by KRenee



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anthology, Gen, Loneliness, Male Friendship, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRenee/pseuds/KRenee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Itachi is used to people wanting to touch him; he is a God, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Is My Right!

Itachi is eight when he starts to really notice that no one in Konoha seems to be able to keep their hands off him.  
It’s not especially bothersome, to be honest. No one’s groping him or trying to get a hand under his pants, or anything like that. It’s not something worth bringing up to father. Especially since father is another one who can’t keep his hands to himself. Mother doesn’t seem to have that same kind of self-restraint issues, but when she has the opportunity she’ll place a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s a rare occurrence, though, as unfortunate as that may be.   
Once again, it’s not like he’s being abused or treated like an object. People just want to touch him.  
The sensuality of normal eight-year-olds isn’t present within Itachi’s psyche. Sasuke loves being hugged, and patted, and gently caressed on the cheek. His little brother loves the physical attention. Itachi is not like that. Itachi prefers distance and the general security of being left alone. It’s unfortunate that he’s a prodigy. Sasuke will come barreling into people in order to get them to touch him. Itachi has to dodge around hands and intrusive shoulders.  
He shouldn’t be surprised though; he’s a God, after all.  
By the time he’s ten and going on those higher level missions with those higher level shinobi, the intrusion is getting to be bothersome. Adults are less frugal with their desire to lay hands upon him, less concerned about being rejected. Itachi’s a kid; he won’t snap at an older shinobi for holding his shoulders and breathing down his neck.  
And they’re right; Itachi decidedly bites his tongue and holds back the scathing remarks about their preferences for younger boys, because he doesn’t want to embarrass his father’s friends, and he doesn’t want to instigate a fight.  
So he deals with it. It’s not like anyone’s hands are roaming farther south than his kidneys.  
It isn’t important, he tells himself, and lets them think whatever they want. It doesn’t matter. He does, however make sure that the boundaries of this permitted physical contact are known. It irks him that he has to set boundaries in the first place – that _should_ be something obvious, right? Humans are such peculiar creatures.  
In all honesty, Itachi hates the contact. He hates the sensation of another’s hands upon him. Even Sasuke’s hand are too grabby; even mother’s gentle hand, simply wanting to make sure she doesn’t bump his head on her way past him with a pot of soup; even father, placing stern hands on his shoulders and trying to pry out of him why he’s been so high-strung the past several weeks. He doesn’t like it. Perhaps it has something to do with the fated night that he knows is coming; perhaps he’s just crazy.  
To say that he hates it isn’t entirely honest, but Itachi doesn’t realize that until after it’s too late.  
The blood on his hands coupled with Sasuke’s agonized expression is cause for nightmares. But even when he’s writhing in his sleep – silently, because he’s a trained, prodigious shinobi, Kisame doesn’t lay a hand on him.  
Even the several other members of Akatsuki that Itachi has met have wanted to touch him. He’s dodged around Hidan several times, and Deidara was always trying to hit him. Sasori had only brushed shoulders with him, but Kakuzu had gone as far as to pull him aside and give him “the talk” about the funds of Akatsuki, and that all the money that comes from missions goes to him, no exceptions. That conversation had involved an intrusive arm wrapped around his shoulder. Even that man with the mask, Self-Proclaimed Uchiha Madara, was keen to touch him… too keen, actually, as Itachi had almost been driven to use force to keep that man’s hands off him.  
But not Hoshigaki Kisame.   
Kisame and Itachi have been partners for nearly four years now, and they haven’t even shaken hands. Kisame is respectful of his decisions, of his personality, and of his strength. Kisame knows that Itachi slaughtered his entire family, and Kisame doesn’t especially want to get on his bad side.  
Itachi didn’t realize how much physical contact had become a part of his life until the years began to ease by and Kisame continued to keep his distance. Their relationship had turned into some kind of odd manifestation of friendship that was laced with professionalism and distance.  
It was right after Itachi and Kisame had fled from Konoha, after going after Uzumaki Naruto for the first time and thus encountering both Jiraiya and Sasuke, who had grown so much that Itachi’s heart both swelled with pride and froze with horror at the hatred in those black orbs. They had retreated a long ways away, and they were safe for the time being. Found a shelter in a cave and set up some kind of makeshift camp that came with being a rogue ninja.  
Itachi woke up in the earliest hours of the morning with a mouthful of blood and a fever that would’ve killed him had he not been roused by Kisame barking his name. He couldn’t fight the bounty hunters that had found them. Hell, he couldn’t even breathe past the crimson liquid that was flooding his lungs out of seemingly nowhere. Wheezing and coughing, they were trapped in that cave.  
Kisame steps in front of him and sends out a powerful _Suikodan_ , strong enough to send them flying far and giving them a clear path to escape. Kisame crouches down beside him long enough to scoop him into those big, powerful arms. And he takes off, knowing that his partner can’t fight and knowing that they’re outnumbered.  
Itachi passes out somewhere along the way. When he wakes up, he’s lying on his back, head propped up on Kisame’s thigh, and two Akatsuki cloaks wrapped around him. His first reaction is to apologize for getting sick, which Kisame only laughs at.   
“Stop being ridiculous.”   
Itachi clears his throat slightly, which earns him a concerned glance. One of Kisame’s big, blue hands touches his forehead, and Itachi has to refrain from craning his neck into the contact.  
“You’ve got a pretty high fever, Itachi-san.” Kisame remarks, his eyes betraying a hint of genuine worry, “How long have you been sick?”  
He shakes his head slightly, and the movement sends a _horrible_ , earth-shattering wave of pain through his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites back a whimper.  
“I can’t…” _think straight, my head hurts **so bad**_.  
Kisame’s frown deepens, and his fingers reached around to feel for swollen glands in Itachi’s throat. When Itachi opens his eyes and sees the expression on his partners face, he has a feeling that he’s probably really sick.  
“You need an irou-nin.” He states what might’ve been the obvious, “Do you know anyone in the area we can go to? Probably not, right?”  
Itachi gives him an apologetic look, and Kisame chews on his lip for a moment, leaving Itachi wondering how he isn’t shredding the flesh with his razor sharp teeth, “I’ll figure something out. Try to get back to sleep, ne?”  
When he wakes up again, Kisame’s gone and they’ve changed locations. His first impulse is to panic.  
He shifts around in the mass of sweat-soaked cloth and trying to ignore the horrible pounding in his head as he looks around through his aching eyes, searching for his partner. He manages to sit up after a moment of sheer, heart-wrenching effort, the cloaks sliding away from his shoulders and piling around his hips.  
Kisame comes through the undergrowth and Itachi almost lets out a sigh of relief.  
“Feeling any better?”  
Itachi swallows a mouthful of dryness and hoarsely replies, “A little.” His voice is pitifully small. Kisame walks around the mess of their campsite – obviously thrown together in haste – and crouches down in front of him, pulling the cloaks up around his shoulders. Kisame touches his forehead again; his hand is cold and this time Itachi does lean into the contact.  
“Hot? Cold?”  
“Both.”  
Kisame nods, pulling a small vial of something out of his kunai pouch, “This should help with the fever. It’ll at least make you more comfortable until I can find an irou-nin.”  
Itachi downs it. It tastes like peppermint and burns like alcohol. His chest spasms and shivers wrack his body and he starts to cough again. Loud, wheezy heaves laced with whimpers and the taste of blood. Kisame rubs his back, holds his hair out of his face.  
The episode subsides and Itachi collapses against his partner, nearly delirious from the fever. Kisame wraps a tentative arm around his shoulder and shares his body heat with him.  
Itachi feels his lips moving, a soft mumble that single-handedly betrays his defenses and reveals his loneliness. All at once, the wall is down and everything falls apart. Kisame’s voice is gentler than usual, somehow less gruff and crude. Itachi has absolutely no idea what he’s saying, but it’s the contact and the warmth that matters to him.  
He’s not entirely clear on the context of the previous night, but when he wakes up, he’s still wrapped up in Kisame’s warmth and their Akatsuki cloaks. His fever has broken and he’s at least partway back to health, or something along those lines.  
“Itachi-san,” Kisame’s voice brings him out of his tired thoughts, and he turns to face his partner. “Keep better tabs on yourself, alright? You had me really worried.”  
Itachi blinks with surprise at the obvious sign of weakness shown by such a distant, professional friend. After a brief pause, he replies, allowing a sincere, thankful small grace his features, “I will.”

Itachi stands out in the rain, his gaze directed at the sky. Kisame’s sitting under the protection of the cave they managed to find moments before it began to pour. Surely Sasuke hasn’t passed without Itachi knowing, right? Surely, Itachi would know if his brother was truly dead, right?  
“Itachi-san,” Kisame calls him, “You shouldn’t stand out in the rain like that. You’ll get sick.”  
Itachi lowers his gaze, closes his eyes, “I know.”  
“It might be strange to say this, but,” Kisame’s smile is slightly bitter, perhaps even sympathetic, “From here, it looks like your crying.”  
Itachi turns to Kisame and starts walking towards the shelter, ignoring the shivers that run as deep as his bones. He sits down besides Kisame, his hair and clothes dripping and his eyes stinging relentlessly. Kisame doesn’t look at him, and Itachi thinks back to the time he was delirious with a fever and muttering to his partner. He wonders what exactly he said that made their relationship change so much.  
Kisame wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. Itachi doesn’t resist the contact. Instead, he closes his eyes and sighs, allowing that familiar, intrusive warmth to consol him.  
“You _did_ promise to keep tabs on yourself, Itachi-san.”  
Itachi smiles, and mumbles thickly, “Sorry.”  
Kisame laughs at that, “Don’t be ridiculous.”


End file.
